Page 2 of Roaring Spell

Before I can ask what that means—before I can ask any of the dozen questions crowding my tongue—she’s heading for the door. Pausing on the threshold. Looking back with that knowing expression that makes me want to crawl under my reception desk and hide.

“The bear is patient.” She adjusts her shawl. “But not infinitely so. Don’t take too long.”

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the golden mist, leaving me alone with crooked crystals and a peach cobbler and the distinct feeling that I’ve just been warned about a danger I can’t name.

“Right.” I stare at the empty doorway. “That was normal. Totally normal welcome wagon behavior. Nothing ominous at all.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I freeze. Close my eyes. Take a deep breath.

Not mine. Probably not mine. The sky was clear five minutes ago, but that doesn’t mean anything. Weather changes.

Just not usually because of my feelings.

The wind chimes by my door jingle frantically, responding to a breeze that hadn’t been there a moment ago. I run through the grounding exercises I’ve done a thousand times before, the ones that sometimes work and sometimes don’t and never seem to matter when my emotions decide to throw a tantrum.

Earth beneath me. Sky above. I am calm. I am centered. I am not going to create a storm on my opening day.

The thunder fades. The wind settles. The chimes go quiet.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

See? Fine. Everything is fine. One cryptic old lady isn’t going to ruin this.

The door chimes again.

My first real client.

She’s a nervous-looking witch in her thirties, clutching an appointment card like it’s a life raft and radiating enough anxiety that I can taste it in the back of my throat. Sharp and metallic, like pennies on my tongue.

“Sakura?” She checks my sign, then my face, then the sign again. Her aura is a mess of tangled grays and murky yellows—fear and worry knotted so tightly, I’m surprised she can function. “I’m here for the chakra balancing?”

“Of course! Come in, come in.” I usher her inside with my brightest smile. Welcoming. Professional. Definitely not someone whose emotions manifest as catastrophic weather events. “Let’s get you set up in the treatment room.”

Her name is Millicent. She runs an accounting practice for magical businesses—brownies, mostly, which explains the anxiety. She hasn’t slept properly in three weeks because she’s convinced she miscalculated a brownie clan’s quarterly taxes and they’re going to curse her entire bloodline.

“They’re very particular about numbers.” She twists her hands as I guide her to the massage table in my nicest treatment room—the one with the amethyst clusters and the enchanted window that shows a perpetual sunset. “Very particular. And they have long memories. Did you know brownies can hold grudges for seven generations? Seven! That’s my children’s children’s children’s children.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” I pat the table, encouraging her to lie down. Brownie accounting curses are not in my wheelhouse. “Let’s focus on releasing that tension, okay? Deep breath for me.”

She breathes. A shaky, shallow thing that barely fills her lungs.

I settle my hands above her sternum, feeling for the energy blockages. There—her heart chakra is a disaster, fear and self-doubt knotted so tight, the real her can’t get through. Her throat chakra isn’t much better. Lot of things she’s been holding back.

I can work with this.

The healing energy flows and Millicent sighs, shoulders dropping. That—that’s why I do this.

When I’m working, really working, my magic behaves. Focuses on the task at hand instead of responding to every stray emotion that wanders through my chest.

I am so absorbed in untangling Millicent’s anxiety that I almost miss the pressure shift.

Almost.

Her fear spikes—some stray thought about brownie vengeance, probably, seven generations of curses cascading through her mind—and my own nerves answer before I can stop them. That’s the worst part of this job.

The energy I’m channeling wavers. Fluctuates.